


Never in your wildest dreams

by runphoebe



Series: mpreg!verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Angst, Mpreg, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runphoebe/pseuds/runphoebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You’re such a weirdo, but I love you,” Scott says, grinning broadly and gulping down the rest of his margarita. “Stiles, dude, in two days both of us will be married. And in two months you’ll have two babies.” </i><br/> <br/><i>“My seventeen year old self is looking on with horrified fascination,” Stiles agrees, winking at Derek. It makes Derek feel cozy inside, like he and Stiles are in on a joke.</i> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>To be quite frank, Derek and Stiles haven't even mastered parenting one tiny human when they find out they're about to have another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never in your wildest dreams

**Author's Note:**

> OMG! I! Finally! Wrote! The! Sequel!!!!
> 
> This fic is heavily focused on mpreg, so step back if it ain't your thing. I know I tagged for angst, but it's honestly just established relationship typical arguments. The arguing is probably mostly lack of sleep related since Noah is a really high maintenance kid and Stiles is pregnant for most of the fic. 
> 
> As usual, this has not been betaed, so hit me up if you see any glaring errors. For real, nothing bugs me more than typos in my fics. 
> 
> This is dedicated to the anon on tumblr who I promised I would update this fic like 3 months ago. The title is once again from the Kanye West song, "Hell of a Life". Thank you, Kanye.

In early October, they take Noah to the beach for the first time. It’s too cool to really go in the water, but Noah shrieks with delight when they put him in the sand.

“Papa!” He calls every five minutes, showing Stiles handfuls of sand.

“Nice,” Stiles says, “You gonna build me a sandcastle, my little beach bunny?”

Noah responds by toddling over to Stiles and dropping the sand at his feet.

“I think that’s your sandcastle,” Derek observes, peering over the top of his paperback. He doesn’t particularly like the beach, but he does like anything that makes Stiles and Noah happy, so he imagines he’ll be spending a lot of time here during Noah’s formative years.

Stiles checks the time on his phone then grabs the bottle of baby sunscreen. “C’mere, buddy,” he says to Noah, who thumps over obediently and lets Stiles rub sunscreen into his face and re-fasten his little sunhat around his head. Derek’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything as adorable as Noah in his hat and sunglasses, so he can’t be blamed if he keeps snapping pictures with his phone and sending them to Scott and the sheriff.

When Noah demands to go in the water, Derek takes him, grudgingly, only because Stiles is curled up asleep on his beach chair, one of his feet diligently piled with sand thanks to Noah.

“Don’t let go of my hand, okay, baby?” Derek says when he sets Noah down by the shoreline. Noah stamps his little feet in the inch-deep water, splashing up the side of Derek’s rolled-up jeans, and he tries to chase after shells that wash ashore, but he holds Derek’s hand like a lifeline; looks up at him, beaming and ecstatic, when he finds a piece of seaweed.

“Daddy,” he keeps saying, showing him the same seagull lurking at the shoreline over and over. When he wears himself out, he plasters himself to Derek’s leg until Derek picks him up. He sleeps on Derek’s shoulder, then sleeps on Stiles until the sun starts to set and Derek has to carry them both back to the car.

*

Derek finds out because he overhears Stiles telling Scott. It’s considerably less romantic than the first time.

“You’re—,” Scott is saying when Derek is about to round the corner to the kitchen, drowsy from an impromptu afternoon nap.

“Yup,” Stiles confirms.

“You’re actually—,” Scott seems to be pretty stuck.

“ _Yes,_ Scott, _jesus_ ,” Stiles says, exasperated. It’s probably time for Derek to make his presence known, but he’s too captivated, glued to his spot in the hallway just out of sight of the kitchen.

“ _Pregnant_?” Scott says, and Derek hits the floor. Literally, he just tumbles to the floor, landing hard on his ass like the rug’s been pulled from under him. It’s the actual most embarrassing moment of his life, and that’s counting the time he cried during _Remember the Titans_ on movie night with Stiles and his dad.

It takes less than a second for Scott and Stiles to come running, probably worried that Noah’s gotten out of his Pack ‘n Play and taken a tumble. When they find Derek instead, still sprawled out and glaring at the ground indignantly, Scott looks confused and a little disappointed with himself for not picking up on Derek’s lurking.

Stiles sighs, one of those put-upon little sighs that he reserves for Derek and Scott pretty much exclusively.

“ _Four_ feet away, Scott. All you had to do was hear him heavy-breathe from four feet away,” he says. Scott hangs his head, ashamed. Derek smirks for half a second until Stiles turns to him, hand extended to help Derek off the floor. Derek takes it, rising to his feet and brushing off his ass with as much dignity as he can muster.

“I had something planned,” he tells Derek, a private sort of smile curving the edge of his mouth, “like, a fancy dinner. I was gonna give Noah to dad for the night.”

“This is better,” Derek says, hushed and honest. It is better; Scott spluttering awkward in the background, a blush staining his face, Noah babbling in his crib, something about a big bug that should have Derek worried but doesn’t because Stiles is pregnant. _Again_. He feels weirdly at peace, floaty like Stiles’ hands on his waist are the only things grounding him.

This is better because this is Derek’s _life_ , this is what he does every day and nothing could be better than that. Of this, he is certain.

“God, this is so much better,” he says again. He takes Stiles’ face in his hands and kisses him hard, does it until Scott groans

“Ugh, I’m just gonna,” he makes a vague motion with his hand, “leave, I guess.”

Stiles hums against Derek’s mouth. “Probably for the best,” he says agreeably.

“Just,” Scott says, heading for the door, “you have a toddler in there, Stiles, a _toddler_. Remember that.”

Stiles lets Derek manhandle him against the wall, doesn’t even blink when Derek buries his face against his throat and just _inhales_. “Dude, you’re seriously in for a shock if you think you can make it through toddlerhood without your kid seeing you have sex.”

“I hate you,” Scott calls from the doorway, hands over his eyes. “Please don’t call me for at least a week.”

*

“I’ve known since that weekend at the beach,” Stiles confides when they’re finished, laying sweaty on the hallway runner with their pants around their ankles. Stiles’ hair looks unreal and he’s got an impressive collection of hickeys scattered across his throat. Derek rumbles with pride every time he looks at them.

Derek noses along his damp hairline. “That was two weeks ago,” he says.

“I know,” Stiles murmurs, “I mean, I didn’t _know_ know. I just had a feeling. I had to be sure. I didn’t think—I thought with Noah, I thought it would be the only time.”

“Me too,” Derek agrees, then pauses to suck the thin skin just under Stiles’ ear, “But I’m really happy—,” he stops, not sure how to finish. He’s really happy that Stiles is pregnant, he’s really happy that he gets to relive the most stressful year of his life all over again, that Noah’s going to have a little brother or sister. Derek’s just—he’s really happy. For two straight years now he’s been really happy, like the universe is finally paying its dues.

“Yeah,” says Stiles.

In the living room, Derek hears a little patter of feet; Noah’s gotten out of his crib again and he’s about five seconds away from walking in on post-coital Stiles and Derek. He yanks up his pants, makes Stiles do the same, and opens his arms when Noah coos and launches himself at them.

Yeah, he can do this again. He’s ready.

*

Derek is _not ready_.

He can barely hear over Noah’s wailing, but he’s pretty sure Stiles is in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet and begging Derek to bring him a glass of water. He glances down at Noah. He’s totally wolfed out, hanging on to Derek’s leg and looking up at him pitifully, face shiny with tears that are partially from the molar he’s cutting and partially because he’s extremely empathetic to Stiles’ pain. Derek swoops him up in his arms and bounces him softly, trying to calm him down enough so they can go check on Stiles.

“Papa,” Noah whimpers sadly, wiping snot on the shoulder of Derek’s t-shirt.

“Papa’s a little sick right now, isn’t he?” Derek says, “Wanna bring him some water?”

Noah nods briefly and buries his damp face against Derek’s neck. He’ll have to take him for a walk or something after this, get him away from Stiles for a while so they can both relax. He fills up a tall glass with lukewarm water (the only kind Stiles will drink when he’s sick) and carries it to the bathroom with his free hand.

Any actual vomiting seems to be on a temporary hiatus when Derek gets there, at least, and Stiles is resting is head on the cool ceramic of the bathtub.

“That for me?” He croaks, inclining his head toward the water glass. Derek nods and hands it over; watches while Stiles takes several short, easy sips. It seems like the worst of the nausea has passed but his skin is still pale and clammy and all of the blood vessels around his eyes have burst. His hair is matted against his forehead with sweat and Derek kneels to the floor to wipe it away. Noah goes immediately to curl himself around Stiles’ legs, returning to human form when he touches him.

“Papa,” he gurgles again, wiping his nose on Stiles’ sweatpants.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles murmurs, rubbing Noah’s back soothingly, “where’d my little wolf go?”

Noah doesn’t answer, probably exhausted after screaming for an hour straight.

“Let’s just hope he stays gone for a while,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles huffs out a weak laugh. “God, I hate this part,” he says tiredly, rubbing one hand over his mostly flat belly, “it sucks.”

He relocates Noah carefully to the bathroom rug, then holds a hand out for Derek to help him off the floor. Derek tugs him up easily, saying, “I know it does, baby.”

Stiles sort of falls against him, face mushed against Derek’s chest. Derek rubs his back and glances at the floor; Noah’s sleeping intently now that he can see Stiles and see that Stiles is okay. For a minute, everything in Derek’s world is quiet—he watches his son twitch in his sleep, cradles Stiles against his chest and breathes in the rank sweat smell of him, the vitality and life hidden just beneath.

Then Stiles’ scent changes. Goes sour and harsh and a little rancid.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Stiles groans, tearing himself away from Derek and tripping to his knees in front of the toilet. He gags and heaves before Derek even has a chance to process what’s going on, and Noah wakes up halfway through a wail. 

With a sigh, Derek goes to refill the water glass.

*

“Scott!” Stiles hollers as soon as he walks in the front door, dragging a disgruntled Derek behind him, “Scott, Scott, Scott!”

“He can _hear_ you,” Derek grimaces, “they’re in the kitchen.”

Stiles mostly ignores him, but does head for the kitchen with Derek in tow and they find Scott chopping tomatoes and Kira on the floor playing with Noah.

“Papa!” Noah exclaims.

“Noah!” Stiles says right back, leaning down to ruffle his hair. Then he turns to face Scott.

“ _Guess_ what this doofus has decided to name Stilinski-Hale baby number two,” Stiles says emphatically, “just _guess.”_

Derek _really_ doesn’t understand why it needs to be such a big deal. It’s just a fucking _name_. It’s the most popular boy’s name in the United States for, like, ten years running for fuck’s sake. “Stiles,” he says, pained.

“What?” Asks Scott agreeably, a giant smile plastered on his face. He loves all talk of babies, probably because he considers it his greatest mission to convince Kira to have one soon enough that it can be friends with Stiles’ and Derek’s kids.

“Is it a girl or boy?” Asks Kira, helping Noah put together some trees from his dinosaur Lego set. Noah disregards both of his parents completely since dinosaurs are literally the only thing he’s cared about for two months and counting. Derek gets it; caring about shit is _hard_.

“ _Jacob,_ ” Stiles says with a flourish, chest all puffed out like he’s _proud_ of Derek’s idiocy, “he’s naming our freakin’ werewolf son _Jacob_.”

“Oh, Derek,” Scott grimaces sympathetically.

“It’s okay,” Kira says soothingly, rubbing his calf, “Jacob is a really nice name.”

“I _know_ it’s okay,” Derek mutters, “I wasn’t worried about it until I told _this_ asshole.” He turns to look at Stiles, who crosses his arms and rests them on top of his belly, glaring mightily.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to call the person who’s carrying your child an asshole.”

*

“Closet _Twilight_ fan or culturally ignorant?” Lydia asks when she comes over for dinner that night and Stiles tells her the big news. Stiles chortles then, coaxing a spoonful of mashed cauliflower into Noah’s mouth, and Derek is just _done_ with this shit.

“I was a _little_ distracted back then,” Derek snaps, tossing his dinner plate in the sink with a clatter, “if you remember.”

The kitchen is silent when he stomps out, except for Noah’s babbling, and he can feel Lydia’s and Stiles’ eyes on him the whole way out the front door.

*

Derek really doesn’t go far, just stomps his way down to the sheriff’s house and invites himself in for a beer, but the fresh air is good for his head and John doesn’t ask too many questions. He just understand that relationships and marriage and babies and _Stiles_ come with a certain amount of complications. He lets Derek stew and be mad, then shoves him out the door when he gets _really_ angsty and sort of starts growling a lot instead of actually talking.

“You should talk it out tonight,” John advises as he lures Derek down the driveway, “you have one and a half kids now, if you put it off till tomorrow it’ll never get done.”

Noah is already down when Derek gets home; he can hear the quick, steady whoosh of his heartbeat from the nursery. He can also hear Stiles padding back and forth from the bathroom to the bedroom, probably getting ready for bed himself. Suddenly, Derek really just wants to put on his comfy flannel sleep pants and curl up around Stiles. Maybe watch a little Netflix before bed. He just wants to not be mad at him anymore.

“Hey,” Stiles says, throaty, when Derek walks into the bedroom. He’s already in his pajamas and his face is a little puffy, the way it gets whenever he cries. He’s cross legged on the floor, so Derek crouches down in front of him and thumbs across his splotchy red cheek. Stiles leans into it a little bit, breath catching in his throat.

Derek remembers what John said. Getting it over with, talking it out.

“Sometimes you make me feel so stupid for not knowing the things you know,” Derek says frankly, keeping his eyes on Stiles even when Stiles’ face crumples a little bit. It’s hard for Derek, who’d rather keep everything bottled up than ever say anything to upset Stiles. “And you—you take these things that are a big deal for me and turn them into a joke.”

It’s quiet in their room except for the fan whirring slowly above them, and it makes Stiles’ sniffles a little deafening.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Derek says, brushing Stiles’ hair back of his forehead.

“I don’t know why I do that,” Stiles says sorrowfully, “Like, I know when I’m going too far but I can’t make myself stop. I don’t know why.”

Derek leans forward, cupping the back of Stiles’ head protectively and pressing his lips to his forehead. “You don’t do it that much,” he reasons.

“Extroversion is my natural defense mechanism,” Stiles says wryly. “Maybe if I’m loud enough you won’t forget about me.”

“You don’t have anything to feel defensive about,” Derek says, face serious. For some reason, Stiles has always had this ridiculous idea that their life is this tentative, fragile thing. Barely held together and liable to fracture at any moment if Derek decides he wants out.

“I know,” Stiles answers, chin wobbling, “I just love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Derek says, “And Noah.”

“And Jacob,” Stiles adds, pressing one of Derek’s hands against his small bump.

Derek hums contentedly and brings his other hand to Stiles’ belly. “You’re my family,” Derek murmurs, “I could never forget about you.”

For once, Stiles doesn’t ruin it by talking. He just listens to the words Derek says and believes them.

*

Stiles shows up at the police station with a glint in his eyes that Derek hasn’t seen in years. It takes him back to Stiles at eighteen, when their relationship was still this ambiguous, undefined sort of thing and Stiles spent most of his time finding ways to piss Derek off.

“What,” Derek says flatly, immediately on guard when Stiles locks the door behind him, saunters over and sits his six months pregnant self on Derek’s desk, shoving actually important paperwork out of his way.

“What?” Stiles parrots, all innocence, “Can’t a guy come visit his husband at work on a Tuesday evening?”

Derek glances down at his watch. He’s working second shift so he’s on duty until midnight, but it’s only just six-thirty now. Closing in on Noah’s bedtime here in the near future. “Where’s Noah?”

“At Scott’s,” Stiles answers, sliding off the desk and crowding up against Derek, who’s still sitting meekly in his chair. “Is my dad working?”

“He’s, uhm,” Derek loses the plot when Stiles tugs his sweatshirt over his head, left only in a thin grey t-shirt that hugs his still small bump, and unbuttons his pants. “He’s on mornings this week,” Derek finishes weakly.

Stiles grins with teeth, looks for a second every bit as feral and predatory and dangerous as a wolf. It’s not surprising, exactly, when he peels off his shirt and toes out of his pants, but Derek can’t help being scandalized.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he hisses, “we’re in a _police_ station. This is my _place of work._ ”

Stiles looks mostly unimpressed and keeps advancing toward Derek in his clingy black boxer briefs. He sheds those too, though, a second before he climbs up and straddles Derek on his chair. “Excellent deduction, Detective Hale,” he murmurs, rolling his hips over Derek’s lap. His dick is already hard and practically leaking onto Derek’s shirt, and Derek’s own is starting to take interest despite the utter absurdity of the situation.

“I wanna sit on your dick,” Stiles says, low pitched so there’s no chance of scaring any passersby outside Derek’s office. “I’m gonna ride you till you can’t even move. Been thinking about this all day.”

“And you,” Derek pants when Stiles reaches a hand between them and undoes his pants, “you didn’t wanna act on it while I was still home?”

Stiles licks his hand till it’s soaked and pumps Derek’s cock two or three times, then lines himself up perfectly over it and pushes down until just the tip is inside, practically suffocating Derek with the hot wet tightness of it all.

“Oh my God, _Stiles_ ,” Derek grits out. The spit coating his dick isn’t really good enough lubricant, but Stiles can take it, he gets off on it, and the friction feels so good for Derek. “What the fuck, what are you _doing_?”

“I’m— _ah—_ I’m making the most of our time as a single child household, dude,” Stiles says breathily, sinking the rest of the way down. His ass feels warm and soft where it’s resting on Derek’s thighs and his bump presses gently against the flat of Derek’s abdomen.

“Please don’t call me dude when you’re sitting on my dick,” Derek protests weakly, not for the first time in their relationship. Stiles just laughs, lifting up and sitting back down a few times in a slow, easy rhythm, leaving Derek helpless to do anything but flex his fingers around Stiles’ hips and try not to wolf out mid-coitus.

“Baby. Sweetheart,” Stiles offers instead, grinning at his own wittiness, “Pumpkin. Love Muffin.”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Derek grunts, but he’s not sure if it has more to do with the ridiculous names or with the way Stiles is still moving so slowly on top of him, letting it get deep every time, like he’s trying to milk the come out of him.

“Soul mate,” he says, voice dropping low and heartbeat rabbit fast in his chest, but so steady, “Husband. Father of my children.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek whines, burying his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck. He wants so badly to shove Stiles onto his back on the desk and fuck him hard and fast until they both come, but he’s overwhelmed by the clutch of Stiles’ thighs around his own, the way he lets Derek inside him, and the feeling on being love so hard by someone that he can feel his world shifting over and over and never worry that it’s going to break.

*

“For the fiftieth time, we didn’t know you’d be pregnant when we set the date,” says Scott, a little harried and more than a little tipsy on wolfsbane spiked tequila. It’s a few nights before his wedding and they’re having a somewhat sad excuse for a bachelor party and Stiles and Derek’s house since they have no neighbors for miles so the wolves can get drunk and shift and run around naked killing bunnies or something, in Stiles’ words. Meanwhile, Noah is having a very exciting slumber party at grandpa’s.

“This is so lame,” Stiles grumbles. He’s about seven and a half months, now, and his sciatic nerve has been killing him so he’s lying on his side on the couch, a pillow between his knees. His belly is peeking out from the bottom of one of Derek’s t-shirts. Honestly, Derek can’t think of a single thing he’d rather do than lay next to him and rub his back until he falls asleep but he’s trying his hardest to be a good groomsman and actually have a good time. He takes a sip of his drink and winces. “I am the lamest best man in the history of weddings,” Stiles further laments.

“You’re not lame!” Scott promises, “You’re growing a person inside you and I think that’s awesome!”

“Ugh, dude, you make me sound like a planter. Like I’m growing a rhododendron or something.”

“You’re such a weirdo, but I love you,” Scott says, grinning broadly and gulping down the rest of his margarita. “Stiles, dude, in two days _both_ of us will be married. And in two months you’ll have _two babies_.”

“My seventeen year old self is looking on with horrified fascination,” Stiles agrees, winking at Derek. It makes Derek feel cozy inside, like he and Stiles are in on a joke.

“My seventeen year old self is totally jealous of my twenty-four year old self,” Scott declares.

Stiles grins fondly. “That’s why I love you, buddy,” he says. Derek’s pretty sure that Stiles at twenty-four can’t even properly comprehend this life he has. Stiles at seventeen would have laughed you out of the room if you tried to tell him where he’s be in less than a decade.

Stiles end ups making it till ten-thirty before he passes out on the couch and Derek has to carry him upstairs. He mutters sleepily when Derek tugs the covers up around him and snags his fingers in Derek’s t-shirt to pull him in for a kiss. “Don’t let Scott do anything stupid,” he commands through a yawn.

“I’ll try,” he promises, thumbing a wrinkle in between his eyebrows. Stiles catches his wrist and squeezes gently.

Somehow, Derek and Scott outlast everyone even though Derek hasn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in eighteen months and Scott singlehandedly consumed _most_ of a bottle of spiked tequila, and three am finds them on the back porch, sprawled out on the comfy Adirondack chairs that Stiles likes to take afternoon naps in.

“I dunno, man, I’m just _so_ ready,” Scott is saying. Derek normally scoffs at stuff like this, but he really, truly believes that Scott is ready to be married. “I just want to be married to her so bad.”

Derek snorts. “That’s probably good,” he says, and has to duck out of the way when Scott tries to shove his shoulder.

“You know what I mean,” he says, “Are _you_ ready?”

“For you to be married?” Derek asks cheekily.

Scott gives him a look. “I mean, I know Stiles is ready. What about you?”

Derek considers the situation. In two months, he and Stiles are going to have two children under the age of two that require their constant attention just to make it from one hour to the next. He has no way to convey to Scott the depth of feeling that comes with having children, and how exhausting it is to be so emotionally invested in another person.

There’s no way to make yourself ready for that—there’s just the acceptance that he’s forever staked his happiness to another person, the way Noah shouts “daddy!” whenever Derek comes home from work, and how calm he feels when he presses his palm to the swell of Stiles’ belly, anticipating the life within.

*

There are very few moments in which Derek stops to consider what they’ve been through to get to this point. Not what he, Derek, has been through individually; but what he and Stiles as a unit, as enemies and allies and friends and lovers and husbands and fathers have been through in the past eight odd years that their lives have become irrevocably intertwined. Thinking about it is almost too much—he always has to sit down, catch his breath.

Even more rarely does he give thought to what Scott and Stiles have been through, but when Stiles stands up and clears his throat nervously during the toasting portion of Scott and Kira’s wedding reception, Derek is overwhelmed by it. Stiles is never at his most comfortable when he’s forced to be sincere in front of those he’s closest to, especially when he’s seven and a half months pregnant and carrying a grumpy, sleepy toddler on his hip, and Derek briefly catches his free hand to give it a squeeze.

“Sorry about the baby,” Stiles starts awkwardly, bouncing Noah up and down on his hip a few times. He’s over eighteen months, now, looking more and more like a real little person every day, but he’ll always be Stiles’ baby. “Had a long day, so he cries every time I try to put him down. Anyway, I, uh—I had about a year to prepare for this speech, but it turns out I’m even better at procrastinating when I have a kid to distract me, so,” he takes a nervous breath. Derek touches the back of his knee gently. “But I’m not sure if I would’ve been able to find the words anyway. Scott and I have been through more together than either of us probably planned when our four year old selves decided to be friends, and I don’t think a two minute speech could do it justice.”

This gets a broad smile from Scott and heavy sighs from John and Melissa alike, along with a few giggles from the crowd, but when Stiles inhales shakily, Derek can tell he’s close to crying. His emotions get the better of him a lot these days, even more so than when he was pregnant with Noah.

“I just—I know that I’m so grateful to have had you by my side for the past twenty years, and I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in crime, or shoulder to cry on, or godfather to my children. Seeing you this happy makes all the tough times worth it.”

There’s not a dry eye in the house at this point, including Derek’s, though he does dab inconspicuously at them so he won’t get relentlessly mocked by Isaac later. Scott rises and reaches over to pull Stiles and Noah into a crushingly tight hug, and Stiles’ “I love you, man,” is lost in the soft linen of Scott’s shirt, but Derek can hear it loud and clear.

“You did good,” Derek murmurs to him after he doles out all his obligatory hugs and sits back down. He can tell Stiles is still feeling a little shaky, so he brings a palm up to cup the back of his neck, grounding.

“’S’embarrassing,” Stiles says, ducking his head. He rearranges Noah so he’s sitting face out on his lap, resting against Stiles’ belly and reaching for the chocolate cake sitting untouched on Stiles’ plate. Absentmindedly, Derek scoops a bite on to a spoon and feeds it to Noah, who immediately pulls a face like Derek has offended him to the highest degree and spits it back out onto his shirt.

“No, daddy,” he says seriously, “no cake.”

Derek raises a suspicious eyebrow—if there’s one thing this kid loves, it’s cake. Stiles giggles and wipes the remnants off Noah’s lips with his thumb. “It’s got Jack Daniels in the icing, hon,” he tells Derek, “Probably a little too much for a nineteen month old palate. Here, give him some of your carrot, that’s his favorite.”

“Some of carrop,” Noah agrees readily, tugging on Derek’s sleeve, “Daddy, now.”

“Hold your horses, kiddo,” Stiles smiles at him, holding him still while Derek lets him take a bite of carrot cake from his fork. He’s certainly old enough to feed himself, but his preferred cake eating method involves smashing his face repeatedly into the plate. “Anyway, now I forever have to live with the fact that I cried at Scott’s wedding.”

“He cried at ours,” Derek points out, “He _bawled_. He couldn’t even make it through his speech.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles shrugs, but he’s hiding a grin, “Guess he really loves me.”

“Maybe you should marry each _other_ ,” says Derek.

*

Comparatively, Derek doesn’t get as much alone time with Noah as Stiles does. He works forty hours a week and when he’s home, he wants to spend time with both of them together, not each of them separately. Which is why it’s nice when Stiles announces that he’s going to have a father-son bonding day with his dad before the baby’s born and suggests that Derek do the same with Noah.

It’s relatively early on Saturday morning, and Derek and Noah are at Derek’s favorite diner eating pancakes with so much whipped cream that Noah’s _definitely_ going to be crashing hard here in just a few hours. Stiles doesn’t understand whipped cream on pancakes, but Stiles also puts maple syrup on his eggs and bacon, so his opinion is irrelevant.

“Do you like the strawberry or chocolate chip better?” Derek asks Noah seriously.

Noah looks contemplatively at his plate; he has half of a chocolate chip pancake cut up into bite size pieces and half of a strawberry and he seems to be eating them at relatively the same pace. “Stawber,” he says after a long pause. Derek grins and thumbs a smear of whipped cream off his nose.

“Are you excited to meet your little brother, kiddo?” Derek asks. Stiles asks some version of this about twenty-three times a day, and Noah usually chooses to ignore him, which seems to be his modus operandi for the entire baby thing in general; like if he just refuses to acknowledge it hard enough, it’ll just go away.

He’s a little more open with his feelings this time. “No!” He shouts.

“Hey, baby,” he says softly, tugging Noah onto his lap, even though he’s squirming like crazy. He turns him around so he’s facing Derek and presses his lips against his dark hair, inhaling that soothing baby scent that still clings to Noah even though he’s nearly two years old. “Listen to me. Papa and I love you so much, okay? We think you’re the best, coolest kid on the planet, and I feel so lucky that I get to be your dad.”

He doesn’t say anything about the baby, because this is just about Noah and how Derek loves him so much that he often has to sit and hold his head in his hands and take deep, easy breaths so his heart doesn’t explode out of his chest. Noah’s hardly even forming sentences yet, so there’s no way he knows what Derek’s saying, but he either gets the idea or can sense the waves of helpless affection rolling off of Derek, because he leans forward and kisses Derek on the tip of his nose.

Embarrassingly, Derek can feel his eyes well up a little and he holds Noah to his chest, one broad hand covering the expanse of his back. “Thanks, buddy,” he whispers, feeling not for the first time like he’d relive his shitshow of a life a thousand times over as long as he got to have this in the end.

*

The night before they’re due to take Stiles to Dr. Deaton’s for his surgery, Derek comes home from work at nine o’clock to find Stiles curled around Noah in his tiny toddler bed. It makes quite a picture—Noah flat on his back with a thumb half stuck in his mouth and Stiles cradling him as close as his nine months pregnant stomach will allow, limbs bunched awkwardly since Noah’s bed is about two feet too short and a foot too narrow for him to fit comfortably. Stiles is asleep, too, mouth open and snoring softly. Derek doesn’t want to wake him up; he just wants to have this moment forever.

He gets out his cell phone and snaps a picture. Stiles’ eyes start to flutter open at the shutter sound, and Derek drops to his knees next to the bed, running a hand through his slightly sweaty hair. It’s been a hot summer.

“Hey,” he says throatily, “Kid couldn’t sleep. S’like he knows something’s goin’ on.”

“Maybe,” Derek murmurs, “You smell a little nervous.”

Stiles hums. “A little,” he agrees, butting his head up into Derek’s hand. He’s awfully quiet tonight, by his usual standards. “Weird to think about what we’re going to be doing at this time two days from now.”

Derek considers this. By now, Noah’s usually been asleep for an hour or two. If Derek’s not working, he and Stiles usually wind up vegging out on the couch watching repeats of Criminal Minds and House Hunters International. Noah’s _finally_ gotten consistent enough about sleeping through the night that he and Stiles can have the kind of achingly slow, attentive sex that they were missing during Noah’s infancy, and they capitalize on this as often as they can.

Two days from now, though—it’s hard for Derek to even process. He remembers his own household growing up, every time a new baby was born, and how hectic things were in the following weeks and months. It’s a terrifying thought; but then he remembers the family he and Stiles have surrounded themselves with, their support system—the sheriff, Scott & Kira, Melissa, Lydia, even _Isaac_ is completely devoted to Noah.

“We’ll be okay,” Derek reassures him. Truly, Derek knows that Stiles knows this, but, Derek thinks, he probably likes being reminded of it. He probably appreciates someone who _isn’t_ nine months pregnant, covered in stretch marks and intermittently elated and depressed, holding his hand and stroking his hair and reminding him that things are going to be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I didn't end it with the new baby? Sorry, dudes. I have a bunch of new baby stuff written, but this felt like the right place. I really like writing Derek and Stiles and Noah. 
> 
> [tumblr](http://runphoebe.tumblr.com) where I mostly talk about tyler hoechlin and hockey boys atm. Also where I'm most likely to post Hell of a Life status updates. If you have any prompts you wanna see in this verse, send me a message on tumblr so i can try to kick my ass into gear and get it done. 
> 
> WARNING: I might make this a multi-chaptered fic instead of adding another work to the series for the next update, but I haven't decided yet.


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